Old Whine

I was 86 two weeks ago It's no wonder that I move slowly. My brain is racing down a track, Looking for lost bits that won't come back. My spelling is getting worse, Which upsets me and makes me feel terse Terse and frustrated, old and grey Few can understand the things I say. I do not know myself, I could be a dusty vase perched on a shelf. A vase that once was admired, Now out of fashion, no longer desired. A relic of another age Tottering on the last page Of an 86-year-old book That is nearing its end, But are there other chapters? For me and others to look at Before I go around the bend I have much to comprehend.